


Color Theory

by TwistedViolets



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Art, Klaus is Klaus, Little bit of blood, Luther is an ass, Painting, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Sibling Bonding, luther centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24344569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedViolets/pseuds/TwistedViolets
Summary: Luther struggles with his powers, as a result his father assigns him a new training regime. All he has to do is paint and well, nothing is ever easy when you have super strength.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really write fics like this anymore but sometimes it’s nice to.

One stroke of blue, one stroke of red, one brush across both colors creates a line of a mushy mix. In some areas the line is purple, in some areas the line is red or blue, and in some areas there are a few specks of paint that attempted to mix but failed.

The canvas is white, only a few strokes of paint on it. Causing it to glare at him, at Luther's hand that trembles, at his brush that creaks in his hand underneath his strength- and then it happens again. 

The brush snaps in half and paint splatters on the floor when the purple tip hits the ground.

"Is everything okay?" Vanya pops her head in his room, not any further than a centimeter, unwilling to overstep boundaries. "I heard-"

"Go away," he growls, leaning over and picking up the tip of the brush with a huff. Vanya jolts back from the sound of his voice and mutters an apology before leaving. He slips the tip of the brush into the cup of clean water, turning it a filthy mixture of purple.

...

He's sweating, his hands are trembling but he swallows down his fear and discomfort. He picks up the brush as he has done many times before and dips it into a glob of red. He slowly, patiently, brings the tip to the pure white canvas and strokes one line across the top, a clear red streak.

"Again, Number One," His father said, ruining his feeling of accomplishment.

He dips the tip of the brush back into the red and brings it to the canvas, before taking a deep breath. Another stripe of red lays down beautifully and his father looks over his shoulder at it with a calculating stare. 

His heart contracts and the brush feels so very, very heavy in his hands. "Why are you doing such simple strokes Number One? Are you incapable of mixing colors or drawing a simple shape?" 

"Of course not, sir," he lies, lies like he knows he's not supposed to. 

He paints a square of red before dipping the tip in water. He swirls it around until the water shifts from clear to a light shade of red. After the paint has washed off completely he dips the tip in a glob of blue and holds his breath.

He brings the tip to the red square, holding it so gently, just centimeters away from it. This is easy, he tells himself, trying to soothe his nerves. 

He paints a line through the red, his eyes want to shut, his body wants to turn away because he knows it won't be enough. One stroke is never enough.

The red tints but it isn't purple, it isn't mixed. He needs to apply more blue, more red then mix and mix until it's a nice shade of purple but it's hard. 

He strokes again, his hand clenching the brush when he does. His father feels so close behind him, so close that he can practically smell him. He strokes another line, he can feel his father's gaze on his hand, heating his skin up.

One more stroke and he's grinding his teeth, hating how self-conscious he is. He's Number One, he's supposed to be perfect but he isn't. He can't even paint a stupid picture.

The brush snaps, it's unexpected, and he flinched when he felt the edge of the wood digging into his flesh, cutting him. Small droplets of blood fall to the floor with the broken tip. He can't do anything but look down in shame as his father shakes his head with disapproval.

"What a disappointment Number One. Being a boy of nearly thirteen you should have more discipline than what this display has shown.”

"Sorry, sir," he swallows, his tongue feels so big that he almost slurs his words.

"Sorry won't fix anything. I want to see results Number One. Your free time will consist of painting until you learn some self-control."

"Yes, sir."

His father adjusts his monocle before turning, only stopping briefly to note that Vanya had been watching them from the second floor banister. He leaves him alone to shed a few tears of frustration.

_He's a disappointment._

...

Klaus makes it look easy.

One stroke of blue, three strokes of red, solid against the paper and there's a purple blob left behind. Klaus smiles, tilts his head, then paints more, making a colorful alien world that he shows off to Diego and Ben.

Neither of which necessarily care but praise him nonetheless.

Klaus isn't even supposed to be painting, it's not his training. At this point Klaus is treating it like it's a fun activity or a hobby and- he's jealous.

Jealous that Klaus doesn't struggle, doesn't even look like he's breathing harder or sweating or calculating any moves. He just puts the brush to the canvas and carries on like it's nothing.

"Did you need something?" Klaus asks, looking at him with an eyebrow raised. "I know I'm beautiful but you don't have to stare."

He snorts and shrugs his shoulders, looking at the purple trees and red brick pathway Klaus has drawn. It suites Klaus surprisingly well. He was always the one to think out of the box. "Your painting is unique," he said and Klaus just grinned, teeth on display. 

"Just like me duh," Klaus says, using the brush as an extension of his hand, making gestures in the air. "That's what art is all about. You know? Expressing yourself or whatever baloney dad is always spouting."

Klaus turns around and continues on his painting with a hum now. "So you didn't need anything?" He says after a moment of darkening a tree limb. 

"I-no."

He slips away and leaves Klaus to paint. As if he'd ask Klaus for help- he’d never live that down.

He bumps into Vanya who quickly apologies, although it wasn't her fault, and she walks into Klaus's room to strike up a conversation about his painting.

"What does it mean?" She asks him, making it all seem so easy.

But she's ordinary and they aren't supposed to talk to her- yet Klaus turns to her with a hum, silent for a moment, then he starts going off. Ranting about his 'deep' painting.

He left them be and returned to his own room to stare at the white canvas sitting in a corner of it. There are a few splotches of color thrown that looked much like the efforts of a six-year-old.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why I made this a two part story??? I guess I was sleep deprived yesterday but like? They should have just been one part but I digress.
> 
> I need more sleep ;-;
> 
> Anyway: Luther is an ass but we love him~

"It's a craft," Vanya tells him, at least tries to but he ignores her. "It's something that takes time and only worsens when you take it too seriously."

He glares at her over his book, wishing so hard that he could simply kick her out but the parlor room is a public space. If he wanted the conversation to stop he'd have to leave.

"Listen, Luther, reading about it isn't going to help you perfect it. It's like a practice makes perfect type of thing. Even if you read that book front to back, knowing color theory isn't going to help you hold a paint-"

"Shut up," he growled, shutting the book before pushing it back into its proper spot on a bookshelf.

"Sorry," she says, hands balling up her skirt before she takes a deep breath and scrambles to find her pills. As he leaves she downs two of them and she almost immediately mellows out.

...

He knows how to paint. He knows how to hold the brush properly. He knows how colors mix. He knows it all and yet, none of that matters when he lacks the experience.

No matter how many times he paints a canvas it just doesn't turn out right. Either the colors don't mix properly because he doesn't use enough pressure- or the paintbrush snaps and he ends up throwing a book halfway across the room to soothe his growing anger.

_He is a disappointment_

It hurts when he thinks about it. His heart squeezes and squeezes until all of his blood has been forced out of it and it gets hard to breathe. He's an absolutely terrible person, letting a paintbrush beat him.

So he tries again and again.

From one day to three days to crying himself to sleep at night. He's imperfect, a mistake, an absolutely disgusting human being. His father is right to be disappointed in him.

...

The colors aren't mixing.

Red isn't turning into purple, it's just globing up and looking a deeper red, and- he glares at it. "Take your time," someone said-nearly causing him to stumble and it takes him a moment to do anything because his heart was beating so fast.

Vanya simply smiles at him when he looks at her, and she tries to seem welcoming. "I-Luther it's a process, you can't rush it."

"Go away," he mutters, taking a deep breath, in and out. Vanya is gone when he looks back.

take your time he tells himself, right. It's a craft, it's practice makes perfect, it's- not something to get worked up on.

Another stroke and another and suddenly the red is starting to turn purple, really purple, deep and rich and- solid not streaky.

He feels proud.

...

He practices for four days, letting himself get comfortable with the idea that it's a craft. It's a timeless affair, and every time he has that paintbrush in his hands he tries to let himself fall away, the concept of time. He starts to get lost in it, drawing shapes like squares and triangles and even once a black umbrella.

It starts to become less of a heartache and more of something he gets used to. He hasn't even broken a brush in almost three days and it feels so much lighter in his hands but in a way like its soft skin, and he's simply holding a baby rather than a wooden stick.

He learns self-control, or well, he's become much better at it.

"Is that a tree?" Klaus says, hand on his chin as if stroking his nonexistent beard. "Or perhaps it's a new type of animal?"

"Tree," he answers, painting a realistic landscape, although the shapes aren't the best at the moment. He's not worried about it, he's just letting himself enjoy the moment- practice makes perfect and eventually, he'll be able to draw a tree Klaus won't have to squint at the see.

Just like Vanya had to go through the awkward stage of squeaky notes and self-doubt. Vanya-

He paints another line of blue, mixing it with white to attempt to draw a river but it's hard to when you haven't exactly seen one up close- at least one in the forest surrounded by nature.

...

"I'm mildly impressed," his father said, looking through his paintings with a rather profound look. "I suppose I should expect no less from you Number One."

His ears are on fire and he tries not to smile but it's hard and he's sure his cheeks are twitching with his effort. "This one, in particular, is rather beautiful," His father admires his landscape before humming. 

"Do you believe you have mastered control?"

He swallows, hands behind his back balling up for a moment before releasing. "Yes, sir."

"I see," his father muttered sitting the painting down before dismissing him with a simple wave.

...

"Thanks...I guess," he stepped from one foot to the other as Vanya looked unimpressed with him.

"There's no need for that," she says, her eyes avoiding his, her hands always touching at her clothes. "I was just trying to help like- you know anyone else would."

Except Allison didn't even offer to help or Diego or Ben or- anyone for that matter. It's every man for himself and well, he supposes that Vanya wouldn't really understand that.

After all, Vanya is ordinary.

"Thanks, anyway." The best part about this is that she could tell their siblings and they would never believe her. That she, little ordinary Seven, helped him Number One.

Although he doesn't really want to think like that- it's just his father coming through and he's always valued his father's opinion.

"You're welcome," it's small and she takes a step back, wishing him a silent goodnight with her smile. She shuts the door.

He heads back to bed, laying on it with a sigh before staring at the ceiling. His next painting should be on space, on the stars, on the different planets, Klaus was on to something wasn't he? Astronomy has always been his favorite, after all, but his paintings definitely won't be as out there as Klaus's were.

He'll paint things that are based in reality. For starters, he'll paint the moon.


End file.
